My Mother

Her.
It.
She.
Bitch.

My mother, oh how I love her
when she's not tying me down to this hell
I call home in the middle of nowhere,
the middle of a hole I cannot seem to get out of
because she's got me held in place by
chains of the past and chains of the future
and finance and finality of her piercing words
that cut like a knife through my heart
because she cannot love me for who I am
but who she wants me to be: someone
who is utterly and entirely not me.

My mother, how I envy her
for the power she has over her own future
and of mine, for that matter, because who am I
but her precious son? The success of which is all
hers, I assure you that, because how could I have
come to this if not for her love and support in all things
I did right and her proper admonishments when I did not
and her loving insight into the world that is naught?

My mother, how I loathe her
for her archaic beliefs that God didn't create Adam and Steve
he created Adam and Eve, but guess what, Mommy Dearest,
He also created the Birds and the Bees and the wind in the trees
that blew those bees together and those birds apart and that love
in one another that just began to start. That boy met that boy
down by the bay and in the sand they did play as the night faded to day
and the clouds rolled away and the sun shone so bright on his behind
as he took hold and I took flight and I learned to love a man, mother,
a man who I loved so dear as he took hold and took me there.
Guess what, Mother so dear, he took me there. He took me there.
Guess what, dear Mother, you're son's a QUEER.

Mother, I love you.
Unconditionally.
Mother, I support you.
Unconditionally.
Mother, I adore you.
Unconditionally.
Can you say the same for me?